


The Best Kind of Hunger

by Flavato_Forever



Category: Scorpion (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-08 13:54:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11082957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flavato_Forever/pseuds/Flavato_Forever
Summary: AU: Toby and Happy meet as competing chefs in New York.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the lovely Maggie, aka @mirkwood-merriwether!

As Happy walked to the subway, she had to side-step three piles of trash that had somehow accumulated on the sidewalk, ignore two catcallers, and pretend that it wasn’t freezing cold outside and pouring down rain. It wasn’t an unusual morning for her, but she managed to get through it with an uncharacteristically good attitude; she was much happier than she normally was on her way to work.

It wasn’t that she _disliked_ her job. Cooking was interesting, from a chemical point of view; making new recipes fascinated her. But she didn’t particularly enjoy having to deal with the people -- her boss, her coworkers, the way-too-rich patrons that frequented _La Petite Table_. For that matter, she didn’t particularly enjoy the fact that she worked at a place called _La Petite Table_ , as if translating the most mundane phrase in the world into French made it somehow upper-class.

But, regardless, Happy boarded the subway with a bit more skip in her step than usual. The day before, Louis, the ancient head chef who had been with _La Petite Table_ longer than Happy had been alive, finally retired. She’d heard nothing concrete about Louis’ replacement, but Walter, the restaurant owner, had been dropping hints all month that the job would be Happy’s. She was the logical successor; she’d been there nearly five years, had worked her way up from a dishwasher to sous chef, had come up with the recipes for half of the menu. She wasn’t an optimist by any means, but she felt good about this. 

* * *

 Just after Happy had gotten to work and slipped on her white coat, Walter walked into the kitchen, flanked by a shorter man with three-day-old scruff on his chin and a hat. Not a chef’s hat, a _bowler_ hat. Happy had to keep her lip from turning upward with disgust.

Walter was giving the hat guy a tour. “And here’s the kitchen,” he said, waving his hands around grandly. “The fridge, stoves, ovens, dirty dishes go over there -- I’m sure Happy won’t mind showing you around.”

“Thanks, Walter.” The hat guy walked towards her. “You must be Happy.” He held out a hand. “Tobias M. Curtis.”

Happy ignored him and looked at Walter. “Who’s this guy?”

“This is our new head chef.”

Happy frowned. “Excuse me?”

“He’s straight out of Johnson and Wales. We’re lucky to have him. You can show him around the kitchen, right?”

Without waiting for a response, Walter ducked out, leaving Happy alone with the newcomer.

“Johnson and Wales, huh?” Despite herself, she was impressed; that culinary school, last she heard, was one of the top in the world. Louis had graduated from there around the time Eisenhower was in office.

“Yep. What about you? You a wildcat, too?”

“God, no. I’m all self-taught.”

Toby raised his eyebrows. “Seriously? You work at _La Petite Table_ ” -- his French accent was impeccable; Happy instantly found him tiringly pretentious -- “and you never went to culinary school?”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

Toby held his hands up innocently. “No problem here. Just respect.”

Happy fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Anyway, like Walter was telling you” -- she started into a fast-paced rundown of the kitchen, pointing to things as she went -- “stove, pots and pans, knives and cutlery, dirty dishes over there. Head chef works right here; I work over there. I’m sure a _wildcat_ ” -- she said the word with mock reverence -- “like yourself can figure out where everything is.”

Toby raised his eyebrows. “Thanks for the detailed tour.”

Happy didn’t respond; she turned, walked over to her station, and began prepping for their lunch special. 

* * *

 “Where are the steak knives?” Toby called out in the middle of the lunch rush. Happy slowly set down the fish she was filleting and sulked over to the knife drawer, grabbing one and handing it to him indignantly.

“Here.”

He started slicing a cut of meat. Happy, in her annoyance, unconsciously hovered over him, waiting for his deft hands to make a mistake. When Toby noticed her, he paused mid-slice, slab of uncooked steak in hand, to look at her.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“No, really. Why is it such a problem for you to hand me a knife?”

“It’s not.”

“Tell that to the look of murder of your face.”

“It’s just a little annoying that the head chef doesn’t even know where the knives are.”

“Well, it _is_ my first day.”

“Yeah, and it’s my eleven-hundred seventy-sixth” -- she’d counted while she was chopping carrots -- “so forgive me if I don’t have a ton of patience for a newbie.”

The words came out harsher than she meant them to. He frowned at her, and she waited for him to yell, to throw his stupid hat at her, to fire her for insubordination -- that’s what Louis would’ve done. But he just turned wordlessly back to the steak and continued cutting. 

* * *

After the dinner rush had come and gone that evening, Toby dismissed everyone an hour early, even the dish boy -- Toby said he’d finish cleaning up. Everyone had clapped at the impromptu leave time, but Happy couldn’t even find it in herself to be excited about the prospect of an early night in. She was sure it was just Toby trying to win over their coworkers’ friendship.

As she pulled off her coat and hung it in her locker, Toby came up to her.

“Happy, do you have a minute?”

She nodded. So this was it. He didn’t want to make a scene before, but he’d fire her quietly now. She was already planning what restaurants she’d go to next -- what restaurants would _kill_ to have her -- while Toby led her into his office.

The room was undecorated, still filled with boxes -- she’d almost forgotten this was his first day. On his desk, there were two plates of filet mignon with sides of mashed potatoes.

“Walter said this was your favorite meal.”

It wasn’t her favorite meal to _eat_ ; it was her favorite creation. She’d worked for three months on perfecting the sauce, and she was sure Toby hadn’t done it right. But, despite herself, she was kind of touched that he’d tried.

“Um, is this your way of giving me a soft exit?”

“An exit?”

“Yeah. I kind of figured, after the steak-knife incident…”

“That I’d fire you over that? Jeez, if I fired everyone who’s snapped at me in the middle of a lunch rush, there wouldn’t be anyone left in the kitchen. But your apology is accepted.”

“Wasn’t going to apologize.”

“Sure you were.” Toby motioned for her to sit down; she did so reluctantly, and he followed suit. “I know,” he continued, “that it’s tough for someone like you to not be the head chef.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“You’re right, but I sure as hell know _of_ you. You’re all over the papers. ‘Innovative’, ‘genius’, ‘stands alone at the top of her field’ -- and that’s just from the latest _Times_ review.”

“I don’t read the _Times_ ,” Happy responded, looking away. It wasn’t really a lie; she didn’t _normally_ read the _Times_. But she’d skim the restaurant-review section for her name; she clipped  every article that so much as mentioned her and saved them in a folder at home.

“Well, they have some glowing things to say about you over there,” Toby said. “As does the _Post_ , the _Journal_ \-- everyone who talks about restaurants talks about you.”

“And yet here I am, still a sous chef.”

“Yeah. Life’s not always fair.”

Happy snorted. “You say that like you have nothing to do with this situation.”

“Oh, what, you’d like me to step down?”

“It’d be nice, yeah.”

“And then Walter would hire some other amazingly-qualified culinary school grad to fill my place. This isn’t about me, Happy.”

“Then who’s it about?”

Toby shrugged. “Society? I don’t know. How many restaurants around here that are worth their salt -- no pun intended -- have head chefs who are self-taught?”

“Self-taught doesn’t mean _bad_.”

“I know that. You know that. Hell, the _New York Times_ knows that. But restaurant owners are a conservative bunch; they might disagree.”

“Whatever. Why do you care, anyway?”

“Because I don’t want you to hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Well, good. Then we’re getting somewhere. Now eat your steak. That sauce took me three tries, the bastard.” 

* * *

The sauce, Happy had to admit, was pretty good. Not up to her standards, but close -- annoyingly close. As they ate, Toby made pleasant small-talk about life in New York. Happy, never one for words, found that the conversation flowed easily.

“So,” he said as they were finishing their meal, “why do you hate the name of this place so much?”

“I don’t.”

“Please. I saw the way you curled your lip up at the sign when you walked in.”

“I did _not_.” Happy sounded more petulant than she would’ve liked.

“Okay, maybe you didn’t _literally_ curl your lip. But I can tell you don’t like the name. Why?”

“I don’t know. I just think it’s a little pretentious. It literally just means ‘The Little Table’. They took a totally ordinary phrase and translated into French and suddenly, _voilà_ , it’s a name suitable for a restaurant where appetizers cost twenty bucks? I just don’t get it.”

“So you’re not big on French?”

“I have nothing against the language. The use of the language to make something sound upscale, though? I hate that.”

“If you had a restaurant, what you would name it?”

Happy blinked, thrown-off by his question. “Oh. I don’t know.”

“Come on. Every chef had a restaurant name locked away.”

“What’s yours?”

“Amy’s.”

“Who’s Amy?”

He smiled. “The one that got away.”

Happy scoffed. “Of course. Could you _be_ any more cliché?”

“Okay then, what’s _yours_?”

Happy shook her head. “You’re going to laugh.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“The Monkey Wrench.”

“The Monkey Wrench?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Why?”

“It’s a stupid reason.”

“I doubt that.”

Happy examined him for a minute, trying to find a hint of malice in his face. She could see it now: he got the name of her dream restaurant and told the whole kitchen team; it would become a running joke. But there was only kindness, genuine interest, in his eyes. So she said, “Well, I don’t know. Life keeps throwing monkey wrenches in my plans. So I figured, screw it, I’m going to make something out of the monkey wrenches. Plus, I like tools.”

“Mm. That’s very poetic.”

“Stop.”

“No, I’m serious. Much deeper than ‘Amy’s’. Now I’m going to have to think up a better name.”

“Is this what you all did at Johnson and Wales? Sit around and think up restaurant names?”

Toby laughed. “Not quite. It’s a tough school, you know. When we weren’t cooking, we were studying.”

“Studying? For what?”

“Um, our tests?”

“What, like written tests?”

“Yeah, like written tests. It’s a _college_. That’s kind of their thing.”

“Sounds like a waste of time, if you ask me. An exam isn’t going to teach you how to cook.”

Toby smiled at her. “No, I guess it isn’t. Is this why you never went to culinary school? Because you didn’t want to take the tests?”

“Yeah,” she said sarcastically. “That’s why.”

“No, seriously. Every aspiring chef goes, even if it’s just to a few classes at community college.”

“School was never my thing.”

“Why I am not surprised?”

“Look, by the time I turned eighteen, my life wasn’t exactly pointing me towards culinary school, okay?”

“Yeah? Where was it pointing?”

Happy shrugged; she didn’t like talking about this -- not with anyone, and certainly not with her new boss.

“Well, let’s just say we’re not all legacies at Johnson and Wales,” she said eventually.

“Oh, I wasn’t a legacy.”

“You weren’t?”

“Not even close. Neither of my parents went to college; my mom didn’t even finish high school, and my dad only did by the skin of his teeth.”

“They weren’t chefs?”

“No. My dad worked at a shoe store.”

“And your mom?”

“She didn’t work. She... wasn’t well.”

“Oh?”

Toby shrugged; Happy didn’t push it.

“But,” she said, “you still ended up at the top culinary school in the country.”

“Mm. I guess I did.”

“Look, Toby, you and I both know that people like us -- people whose parents work in shoe stores -- don’t just _get in_ to Johnson and Wales.”

“Well, I did.”

“What did you do, kidnap the dean’s kids and hold them hostage until you got an interview?”

Toby laughed. “More like called the dean’s assistant incessantly -- and I mean _incessantly_ \-- until I got her to go on a date with me. Then I charmed my way onto the dean’s schedule.”

“Oh, great. A womanizer as my boss. This is just perfect.”

“I’m not a _womanizer_.”

“Really? How long after you got your interview did you dump poor Miss Dean’s Assistant?”

Toby looked away. “We actually just broke up last month.”

Happy raised her eyebrows. “You dated this girl for two years?”

“Three, actually. Took me eighteen months to get my degree, another eighteen months of interning to get qualified to work here.”

“And you dated her the whole time?”

He shrugged. “I kind of fell for her.”

“Was she Amy?”

“Yep. The one that got away. We were actually engaged. We’d sent out our save-the-dates and everything.”

“Why’d you break up?”

Toby shook his head. “A lot of reasons. Most of them were my fault.”

“I’m sorry.”

He smiled sadly. “Well, that’s my monkey wrench, I guess -- losing her.” They were silent for a moment before he said, “What were yours?”

“My what?”

“Monkey wrenches. Stuff that life’s thrown in your way.”

“The real question is, what _hasn’t_ life thrown my way?”

“For real, Happy. I want to learn more about you.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I like to know about my employees. And you seem like a girl with some interesting stories to tell.”

“I guess you could say that.” She glanced at her watch; it was nearing midnight. “But I should probably go. It’s late.”

“Ah, saved by the clock.”

Happy stood up and moved to clear her plate. Toby stuck out a hand to stop her.

“No, let me. Please. It’s the least I can do, after swooping in here and taking your job.”

“My job?”

“Come on, we both know you’re ten times as qualified as I am to be head chef.”

“Want to tell Walter that?”

“Oh trust me, I will, soon as I get the chance.”

Happy looked at him, trying to understand the strange man in front of her, one who seemed willing to give up the most prestigious position at one of the nicest restaurants in New York for some girl he met that morning.

“Well, goodnight then,” she said. “And thanks. For everything.”

He smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Happy.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Happy found herself smiling when she saw the sign for _La Petite Table_ as she came into work. She’d arrived early, so the restaurant was nearly empty when she got inside. Walter was standing in the back, on the phone with their vegetable supplier, griping loudly about some small transgression on the vendor’s part. Happy caught his eye and mouthed _stay calm_.

Walter had a habit of antagonizing vendors. He would find some small inefficiency in the way the sellers worked -- he was always going on about inefficiency -- and yell at them until they decided to stop selling to _La Petite Table_ . It was a rather small business, after all, not really worth the trouble of dealing with its persnickety owner. The waitresses had started betting on how long it would be until they had to find a new supplier of something or other. In his last interview with the _Post_ , Walter boasted that his restaurant got crabs and oysters all the way from Baltimore; he neglected to say it was because he’d been banned from just about every seafood market in New England.

Walter seemed to ignore Happy’s whispered warning; he turned his back to her and continued complaining. Happy walked passed him and went into the kitchen, where she found Toby flipping through the Creation Book.

The Creation Book -- infamous enough among the _Petite Table_ staff to be capitalized in all written discussion of it -- was proof of Happy’s culinary genius. It contained every recipe she’d ever come up with, starting with the raspberry tarts she first made in middle school. To the chefs in the _Petite Table_ kitchen, it had become a sort of Bible. Louis had almost tried to take it with him when he left, but Walter wouldn’t allow it.

Now, Toby was reading it, a look of awe on his face.

“Hey,” Happy said, startling him.

“Oh, hi. I didn’t hear you come in.” He pointed to the book. “This… you _made_ all of this?”

“All those recipes, yep.”

“Happy, there has to be hundreds of dishes in here.”

“Three hundred and seventeen, as of last week.”

“ _Three hundred and seventeen_? You’re only, what, twenty-five? Twenty-six?” Happy shrugged noncommittally. “You must be the most prolific chef of the century -- maybe ever.”

“Well, it’s not that hard, when you look at cooking like a science. Taste buds are built to sense certain chemicals, some more strongly than others, some more _enjoyably_ than others. Once you figure out what chemicals go well together, it’s just a matter of making those chemicals by combining foods.”

“ ‘Just a matter of making those chemicals by combining food,’ ” Toby repeated. “Sure. So simple. Just like Apollo Thirteen was ‘just a matter of sending some guys to the moon’, huh?”

“It’s not really comparable.”

“I guess not, but…” He shook his heads, eyes wide with admiration. “God, and you never went to culinary school.”

“I told you, those tests they gave you weren’t teaching you anything.”

“Now, wait--”

Toby was cut off by Walter’s rushing into the room. “Happy,” he said annoyedly. “I need you to talk to Molina. She’s being absolutely unreasonable.”

Happy sighed. “Sure thing, boss.”

Walter led her out of the kitchen and handed her his cell phone, which she put up to her ear.

“Adriana?... Yes, this is Happy… I know he was rude to you; I’m sorry about that… No, _please_ don’t do that…”

* * *

 Happy hung up the phone and let her head fall into her hands. Molina had crossed _La Petite Table_ off her delivery list. She was one of the last reputable vegetable vendors in New York and, as she’d reminded Happy multiple times in their conversation, she was buddy-buddy with the head of the farmers’ union that influenced all the New England. She could blackball _La Petite Table_ from sellers as far as Maine.

Happy shook her head; that was Walter’s problem now. When she returned to the kitchen, Toby was smiling at her.

“What?” she asked.

“So, you’re not only the best sous chef in town; you’re also Walt’s therapist.”

“I’m not a therapist -- or not a good one, anyway. I just lost the vendor. And don’t call him Walt; he hates that.”

“Why? It’s more efficient than saying ‘Walter’.”

Happy had to laugh at that. “True. But he doesn’t like it.”

“So, we don’t have vegetables anymore?”

“We have enough to last through the week, maybe a little more. I guess by then Walter will have figured something out. He always does.”

“ ‘Always’? This happens a lot?”

“He makes me clean up his vendor messes once every week or so. Normally I can sweet talk the vendors--” She cut off; Toby was laughing. “What?” she asked.

“You? _Sweet talking_?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t seem like the type.”

“I’m not. But I do what I have to to keep this restaurant afloat.”

“Mm. That’s admirable of you.”

He paused, and they both understood what he left unsaid: _That’s the kind of thing a head chef would do_. Happy looked away, trying not to get mad at him for taking her job.

“But anyway,” he continued after a minute. “I cut you off. You normally keep the sellers happy by sweet talking them?”

“Yeah. I can normally talk them into continuing to deliver to us. But every month or so, we lose one.”

“Wow. There must not be too many vendors left to do business with.”

“Nope. Walter’s very particular, kind of hard to get along with.”

“It didn’t take me long to figure that out.”

“He’s a good guy, though, underneath it all. He looks out for us.” It had been Walter, in fact, that had talked Louis into letting Happy go from dishwasher to line cook -- the most difficult transition on her her way to sous chef. Louis hadn’t wanted to let someone who was untrained touch his food. But then Happy cooked Walter some fish -- the oddest recipe, fermented fish with cod oil -- for this birthday and he’d decided her talent was being wasted on the dirty dishes. So he’d talked Louis into giving her a two-week trial run; once Louis had seen her cook, he accepted her immediately.

She didn’t want to tell Toby all of this -- he was too new in her life to be sharing such secrets with, and besides, she didn’t want him to think she’d only gotten where she was because of some restaurateur’s charity. So she just left it at that: _He looks out for us._

Toby nodded. “That’s good.”

They ended up standing their, looking at each other, and the silence lasted long enough to get awkward. Eventually, Happy made an excuse about checking on their supply of ice cream, so she could slip into the freezer and out of his intense gaze.

* * *

Paige arrived a few minutes early for her shift and spent her extra time in the kitchen, talking to Happy while the chef prepared their soup of the day.

“So, according to his teacher, Ralph’s reading at a college level. He’s in _kindergarten_ , Happy. I mean, I don’t mean to brag, but _damn_.”

Happy smiled. She complained about Paige’s talking too much, always breaking the focus of the kitchen, but she was pretty fond of the waitress. She’d met Ralph, too, and taken to him immediately. Paige was the only coworker Happy might call a friend.

“That kid’s going places,” Happy said.

“You bet he is. Anyway -- hey, I heard Wendy say we lost the vegetable vendor this morning?”  

“Yep, we did.”

“Damn. I bet twenty bucks that we’d last through the end of the month.”

“We were close -- I was on the phone with Molina for a solid thirty minutes, basically begging her to keep doing business with us. But no luck. Walter sure can piss people off.”

“Wait, Molina? Adriana Molina?”

“Yeah, the vegetable lady. Why?”

“I know her -- her daughter’s in Ralph’s class. Maybe I should call her, try to get it all sorted out?”

“I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

“Paige!” Walter called into the kitchen, interrupting the conversation. “Your shift started two minutes ago.”

“Go,” Happy whispered, “before he starts calling you inefficient.”

Paige chuckled, and then went off to start her shift. 

* * *

 As Happy was leaving the restaurant that evening, Toby slipped in step beside her.

“Hey,” he said, placing an arm on her back and startling her. She moved to shove him off before recognizing him.

“Oh, hi.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I just thought… where do you live?”

Happy raised her eyebrows at him. “That’s a pretty personal question.”

“No, I just meant… I live down at Fourth and Twenty-Second. If you lived close by, we could walk together.”

Happy shook her head. “I live out in the Village. I have to take the subway home.” She pointed down the street, to where the subway station waited.

“Oh. Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

He waved goodbye as their paths diverged, Happy headed south towards the subway station and he headed west towards Twenty-Second Street. It struck Happy as odd, his rushing out of the restaurant to try and walk her home. But she didn’t have time to dwell on it; Paige called her as soon as she crossed the street away from Toby.

“Paige?”

“Happy! Guess what?”

“What?”

“I talked to Molina, and _La Petite Table_ ” -- her French accent, unlike Toby’s, was unashamedly poor; Happy smiled -- “is back on their delivery list.”

“Wait, are you serious?”

“Yep! I just told her she could come eat for free whenever she liked -- I’m pretty sure we let all the vendors do that, but I guess she didn’t realize that. She thought she was getting special treatment, and she warmed right up.”

“Wow. That’s great.” Happy felt a twinge of guilt -- she’d always looked at Paige as a sweet but simple, unskilled person, working as a waitress to support her son because there weren’t really any other jobs she could do. But Happy had spent half an hour trying -- and failing -- to do something that Paige had accomplished with a five-minute phone call. “Did you tell Walter?”

“Yep, right before I called you. You know how he is -- ‘Oh,’ ” -- Paige mocked Walter’s deep voice -- “ ‘that’s good, Paige. Thank you. Goodbye.’ But I’m still proud of myself.”

“You should be. Without Molina, we were kind of screwed.”

“I’m happy to help. Look, I’m about to be home and I need to make sure Ralph gets to bed okay, so talk to you later?”

“Sure.”

As the call ended, Happy was climbing onto the subway. On her long ride home, she caught herself wishing she lived near Twenty-Second Street, just so she could have walked home with Toby.


	3. Chapter 3

As the weeks passed, Happy decided she liked Toby. He was weird -- he’d vacillate between spouting stupid puns and trying to yank out your childhood secrets -- but he was a patient and kind boss; he didn’t yell perpetually like Louis. He also made a weekly tradition of the head chef/sous chef dinners, and Happy grew to look forward to them.

One day, a few months into Toby’s tenure as head chef, as they were cleaning up from their dinner, Happy asked, “Why don’t you ask me on a real date?”

Toby smiled down at her. “That would be sexual harassment.”

Happy scoffed. “What, are you worried I’d sue you?”

“No, I was worried you’d slap me. And then quit.”

Happy paused, pretending to think it over. “I don’t think I would.”

“Well, for it to be on the up-and-up, _you’d_ have to be the one to ask _me_.”

“I don’t think that would make it ‘on the up-and-up’, exactly. You’d still be my boss.”

“But it would make it _closer_ to the up-and-up. Up-and-up adjacent.”

Happy rolled her eyes. “You just want the satisfaction of having me ask you for something, don’t you?”  She was surprised at herself -- was she flirting?

Toby grinned at her without responding.

“Fine,” Happy said. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”

“I would love to.”

“Good. How about tomorrow night?”

Toby frowned. “I have a meeting tomorrow night. How about Friday?”

“Sure. It’s a date.”

“That it is.”

* * *

Happy had the following day off, and then Toby took off on Friday, so she didn’t see him for two days. He texted her in the morning, telling her where and when to meet for their dinner. She spent all day slightly giddy -- an emotion she rarely felt. One her way home, she mentally planned out her outfit for the first time in her life.

When she’d told Paige about her date -- not naming Toby, of course; Paige was deeply linked to the office’s grapevine, and Happy didn’t want word of this getting to Walter -- Paige had insisted on taking her shopping, but Happy had refused. She didn’t want to spend three hours and three hundred dollars finding a dress she’d probably never wear again. Now, though, she wished she had taken the waitress up on that offer; Toby had told her to “dress nice” for the date, and she realized she had painfully few “nice” outfits at home. She had one decent black dress, which she’d worn as Paige’s plus one to a cousin’s wedding -- that would have to do.

Right before she got to her building, she bought a copy of the _Times_ , just to scan for her name, which she did as she walked up the steps to her floor. As she reached her apartment, she caught sight of _La Petite Table_.

The review started off talking about Walter, his unorthodox business practices, etcetera etcetera -- all stuff she’d read before. Then it mentioned Toby.

La Petite Table _has caught the hottest new Johnson and Wales grad, Tobias Curtis. After a little over a year of sous cheffing in Midtown, he’s come to be the head chef of one of the priciest restaurants in the Upper East Side._

_His secret? “The Creation Book. It’s our nickname for this book we have of all these original recipes -- that’s why people come to_ La Petite Table _. We have the most unique dishes. Almost everything on our menu was invented by the chefs working in our kitchens. We’re one of a kind, really.”_

_Curtis didn’t mention who’s contributed the most to this “Creation Book”, but with a background like his, we can only assume his recipes rule it._

Happy’s grip on the newspaper tightened, almost ripping the thin page. _We can only assume his recipes rule it_. He didn’t even _have_ any recipes _in_ it. Even Louis -- perhaps the least humble person Happy had ever met -- had had the decency to credit Happy every time he mentioned the Creation Book.

Immediately, Happy knew she wasn’t going on the date. She couldn’t sit across from him and act like he hadn’t taken credit for her life’s work. She thought about calling him, telling him she was sick or some emergency had come up, but she didn’t even want to hear his voice -- that voice that had subtly taken credit for the Creation Book.

She tossed the paper onto her kitchen counter, sat down on her sofa, and flipped on the TV. She was too angry to really focus on anything, so she just stared at the screen blankly, allowing the characters on it to float in and out without registering what they were doing.

He had taken credit for the _Creation Book_.

* * *

Around ten thirty -- an hour after she was supposed to meet Toby -- Paige called. She sounded surprised when Happy picked up the phone.

“Happy? I thought I was going to get your voicemail. Aren’t you supposed to be on a date?”

“Yeah. I’m not going.”

“What? Why?”

“Turns out the guy was kind of a jerk.”

“Really? You seemed so excited about it yesterday.”

“Yeah, well, I was. But now I’m not. Anyway, why did you call?”

“Oh, just -- do you know anything about our seafood supplier?”

“Greatview Fishery? Just that they work out of Baltimore. Why?”

“Walter asked me to talk to them.”

“Jeez, please tell me he didn’t get them to ban us from their business.”

“I think he did.”

“Well, there goes our seafood. The next closest vendor has to be in Virginia, maybe even the Carolinas.”

“Walter wants me to try to talk them into selling to us again.”

“Well, that would be nice.”

“I don’t know…”

“Didn’t you do that with Molina a few weeks ago?”

“Yeah, but that was different. I knew her; her daughter has a crush on Ralph. She practically owed me a favor. I’ve never even heard of these Baltimore guys, until this morning.”

“Well, just do your Paige thing.”

“My ‘Paige thing’?”

“Yeah, you know. You always get the most tips of any waitress on staff. Just… charm them.”

“Being nice to customers is pretty different than talking to some pissed-off fisherman from Baltimore.”

“I guess. But what’s the worst they can do? Say no? It’s not like they’re going to come find you. I’m sure Baltimore fishermen have bigger things to worry about than a waitress from New York City.”

_Bigger things to worry about_. Toby would’ve said that the fishermen have _bigger fish to fry, no pun intended_. Happy frowned; she didn’t want to think about him.

“I guess so,” Paige was saying. “I’ll call them in the morning, I guess.”

Thinking about Toby made Happy think about the date and the newspaper article, which sent her fuming all over again. Before Paige hung up, she said, “Have you seen the _Times_?”

“No, I don’t really read the paper. But I heard someone say we got a mention in it again?”

“Yeah. Let me read you the article.”

When she finished reading, Paige scoffed on the other end of the line. “Wow. Well, the _Times_ got it wrong.”

“The _Times_? How about Toby? He basically took credit for my work.”

“Well, they did write that he didn’t _say_ who made the book.”

“He probably didn’t say anything just so they would assume it was all his work.”

“Maybe. But he seems like too nice of a guy to do that. Just ask him about it tomorrow; I’m sure he didn’t mean to make the reporter think that.”

Paige’s logic just made Happy angrier.

“Whatever.”

“Look, I have to put Ralph to bed -- are you okay, though?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

As soon as Happy got off the phone, there was a knock on the door. Happy checked the clock; it was close to eleven, much past the time for normal visitors.

When she pulled open her front door, Toby was standing in her hallway.

“Thank _God_ ,” he said, breathless. “I thought something happened to you.” He slipped past her, into her living room. “I called you, like, three times.”

“I know. I was ignoring you.”

“You were? Why?”

“God, haven’t you ever been stood up before? You’re not supposed to show up to the girl’s apartment -- how did you even know where I live?”

“Employee records. I just came from _La Petite Table_. It was a long walk, damn it -- from the restaurant where I was waiting for you, up to the Upper East Side, and then back here.”

“Okay, well, glad you got your exercise. Now please leave.” She motioned to the door, which was still open.

“Wait,” he said, not moving. “Why did you stand me up?”

“You really don’t know?”

He shook his head.

“Have you seen the _Times_ today?” she asked.

“No -- wasn’t there an article about us in it?”

“About _us_? About _you_ , maybe.” She walked over and picked up the paper, which was sitting on her counter. “ ‘Curtis didn’t mention,’ ” she read, “ ‘who’s contributed the most to this “Creation Book”, but with a background like his, we can only assume his recipes rule it.’ ”

Toby shook his head innocently. “Oh. Well, the reporter must have just gotten confused.”

“Sure. I’m sure you didn’t say _anything_ that hinted that you had made the book.”

“I didn’t, I swear! Why would I have? It’s not mine.”

“Why didn’t you just say I made it? Would that have been too emasculating, to admit that a female sous chef who never went to culinary school was a better chef than you?”

“I didn’t say anything because I thought it went without saying!” He didn’t, Happy noticed, deny the fact that she was a better cook than he. He continued, “Louis mentioned you in a thousand interviews; I just assumed everyone knew by now that you were behind the book. Look, I’ll call up the _Times_ tomorrow and get them to issue an apology.”

Happy shook her head. “That’ll just make me look petty.”

“Who cares? Walter has looked petty as hell in every newspaper in New York. He won’t say anything.”

“Yeah, but no one would hire me.”

Toby shook his head, not understand. “You already have a job. Why do you need anyone to hire you?”

Happy took a deep breath before saying what she had been thinking over for the past two hours: “Because I quit.”

“ _Excuse me_?”

“I quit. It’s never going to work. This,” -- she moved her hands in a circle, motioning to the space between her and Toby -- “is never going to work. You were right, what you said back when we first met: restaurant owners are too conservative to make me head chef, and I’m sick of being sous to people like you.” Toby winced at the insult, but Happy kept going. “So I’m done being a chef.”

“What? What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Write cookbooks, maybe. Travel. Get the hell out of this God-forsaken city. I don’t care. I just don’t want to play this” -- she motioned between them again -- “game anymore.”

“No, Happy, please don’t do this. I’m sorry--”

“It’s not about you. Or, maybe it is about you a little. But mostly, you were just, I don’t know, a catalyst. You just made me realize what I should’ve realized a while ago: I’m not the kind of person who makes it in New York restaurants.”

“Not the kind of person who makes it? Happy, you’ve already made it! All the critics _worship_ you.”

“Yeah, and maybe that would be enough for some people. I don’t know. I’m just sick of this -- of always having to listen to someone else, to worry about what the head chef is going to say in some interview, because sous chefs never get interviewed. I just need a fresh start.”

“Happy…”

“Stop. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to tell Walter tomorrow.”

Toby sighed. “Okay, wait. You have the weekend off, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, at the very least, don’t quit until Monday.”

“Why?”

“For me. You just stood me up; you owe me at least a weekend.”

Happy wrinkled her nose. “Fine. But first thing Monday morning, I put in my two weeks notice.”

Toby nodded. “Thank you.”

“Now, would you please leave me alone before I call the police?”

Toby held his hands up. “Fine, I’m going. But you promise: don’t do anything until Monday?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.”

“Thank you, Happy.” With that, Toby walked out her door and was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's followed along with this fic & left such sweet comments! I hope you all enjoy this final chapter.

Happy spent the weekend upstate; she needed to get out of the city. She took her motorcycle up to Buffalo, rented a room at a cheap motel, and watched crappy TV movies for two days straight. She subsisted mostly on Ramen noodles and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches; if only those worshipping critics could see her now.

Sunday night, she rode home, enjoying the brisk April air of the countryside before she got swallowed up by the smog of the city. She might miss a few things about New York, but the air quality was not one of them.

On Monday morning, she got to work early, hoping to catch Walter before anyone else had arrived. She figured he’d be in a good mood; Paige had managed to convince Greatview Fisheries to continue selling to _La Petite Table_ , which must’ve been a relief for the cantankerous restaurateur. But she found him in his office with his brow knit and his eyes narrowed angrily.

“Walter?” she asked. He looked up.

“Oh, good, you’re here. Have you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Toby quit.”

“He did?”

“Yeah, Saturday morning. Of course he waited until right before the lunch rush.”

“Did he say why?”

“He went on about it for about an hour. He kept mentioning kamikaze pilots, though I have no idea what _that_ had to do with anything. Anyway, he told me over and over that I should make you head chef.”

Happy perked up slightly. “He did?”

“Yeah. I told him that was ridiculous.”

Happy bit her lip, trying to keep from looking too crestfallen. “Oh.”

“I mean, if it were up to _me_ , I’d put you up there in a second. But I only own half the restaurant, and our other investors… They only see the degrees, not the talent. Trust me, Happy, I’ve talked you up at every owners’ meeting there is. They won’t budge.”

“Really?” Happy hadn’t known that; she was suddenly overcome by a wave of gratitude for this odd, kind man sitting in front of her.

“Of course. You’re the best chef in the country, Happy. No one’s disputing that. I’ve even considered faking a degree for you, just to make the other owners more amiable, but that would be too risky. If I got caught, you’d be blackballed… I couldn’t take the chance.”

“Um.” Happy’s voice cracked; she cleared her throat. “Wow. Thanks, Walter.”

He waved a hand nonchalantly. “Yeah, well. Now we’re down a head chef. We’ll start looking immediately, of course, but it’ll probably be a few weeks until we find someone. With Louis, at least we had some time -- Toby was just gone. Ugh, anyway. You can take the reins, right? Just until we get a replacement.”

Happy smiled sadly. She couldn’t quit, not now. Not after finding out all that Walter had done for her. “Sure. I’ll just be in the kitchen if you need me.”

“Thank you, Happy.”

Happy turned and walked out of Walter’s office, into the kitchen, blinking to keep from crying. The kitchen was empty. She went over to her work station to start cooking, but she paused. Sitting on top of her cutting board was the Creation Book.

Toby must have left it there before she quit. She shook her head, trying to dispel thoughts of him. She slid the Creation Book off her workstation and started working. 

* * *

When the last dinner patrons had finally left and the restaurant was closing for the evening, Happy took the Creation Book and headed towards the head chef’s office. On the way, she found Walter leaving his.

“Heading home, boss?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Any luck in the head chef hunt?”

“A few promising leads -- turns out the culinary schools are just churning out cooks nowadays. A lot of them are fresh out of college, without any experience, but we’re a bit desperate, so.”

“I’m sure you’ll find someone good. Hey, can I give you a suggestion?”

Walter eyed her somewhat suspiciously, but said, “Sure. Shoot.”

“Make Paige the manager.”

“The restaurant manager?”

“Yeah.”

“But _I’m_ the manager.”

“Yeah, but you’re also an owner, and we all know you’re a better owner than you are a manager. Didn’t she just get us back on Greatview Fisheries’ delivery list?”

“Yes, as a favor to me. But she’s such a great waitress.”

“That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t be better at managing.”

“She has no managerial experience.”

“I didn’t have any chef experience when you convinced Louis to let me be a line cook, and look how that turned out. Paige would be a great manager.”

“But then what would I do?”

“Do what all the other owners do: sit back and let the money flow in. Come by and check up on us every once in awhile, if you like. But I bet Paige would run a tight ship. You could get a hobby -- haven’t you always talked about wanting to learn more about Soviet rockets or something?”

“Yes, the Soviet space program is certainly an interesting subject…”

“Just think it over. I think it would be a good thing.”

He nodded at her. “Okay, Happy. I’ll think about it. Goodnight.”

When he left, she slipped into the head chef’s office. The room was bare now, without any of Toby’s paraphernalia cluttering it up. She’d spent so many evenings sitting at that little folding table that he’d pull out, laughing over dinner. She’d grown so accustomed to the things he’d hung over his desk -- his degree, a few pictures from college, a print of one of Monet’s _Water Lilies_. He called it its French name, _Nymphéas_ , again with his impeccable accent. They’d talked about it over some pork chops served in a delicious shallot sauce. The wall looked naked now without it.

She sat down  at the now-empty desk -- the desk that would never be hers, no matter how hard she or Toby or Walter tried -- and flipped open her Creation Book, planning on reading over the recipes sentimentally. She paused when, inside the front cover, she found a handwritten note.

_Happy, I’m sure you’ve heard by now that I quit. I tried and tried and tried to get Walter to make you head chef, but he just talked in circles about the investors and the other owners and whoever else… I’m sorry. I know you probably want nothing to do with me, but could you meet me at my apartment? I’ll be there all day._

At the bottom of the page, Toby signed his name. She was still slightly mad at him for the interview, but after he had quit for her, the least she could do was say goodbye.

* * *

 His building was nice, Happy mused as she stood outside his door, waiting for him to answer her knock. The lobby was decorated with expensive-looking leather furniture, and there was a cheerful doorman. It reminded Happy how much more head chefs make than sous chefs -- she had no doorman; her lobby had nothing but two faded cloth couches.

Toby answered the door in a Johnson and Wales tee shirt and a pair of dirty sweatpants. His stubble was longer than normal.

“Hey,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I just saw your note -- can I come in?”

He stepped aside, allowing her to enter. “Sure, sure.”

His apartment was spacious but sparsely decorated, and he had these awful curtains with palm trees on them. Evidently, he wasn’t into interior design.

“So, I guess I should say thank you,” she said.

He shook his head. “No, no, that’s not why I called you here. I have something to show you.”

He disappeared behind a door, which Happy guessed went to his bedroom, and then reemerged a second later, holding some photographs. He handed them to Happy. “Look at these.”

She shuffled through the stack. The pictures were of a nice empty building somewhere. Hardwood floors, nice natural lighting -- it immediately struck Happy as a good place to have a restaurant.

“Why are you showing me this?” she asked when she’d seen all the pictures.

“This building -- well, let me start at the beginning. I had an uncle; he was my mom’s second cousin. I only met him once or twice. He passed away three months ago, right after I started working here. He lived in LA, and he owned a couple of buildings out there. This was one of them. When he died, he left the buildings to me -- I guess he didn’t have any closer relatives to leave them to.”

“Okay…” Happy thought she knew where this was going, but she’d taught herself to not hope for things like this.

“So now I own this building out in LA, and it would be _perfect_ for a restaurant. And I just happen to know someone who would make the perfect head chef.”

Happy knew she should be elated, but it all sounded too good -- her mind immediately tried to poke holes in the plan.

“Wait, you’ve had this building for three months? And you’re just now thinking of turning it into a restaurant?”

“Yeah. Look, when I first heard that my uncle had passed, I’d just started at _La Petite Table_. I was in way over my head and I couldn’t process anything. I basically forgot about the buildings, until April came and I realized I had to pay taxes on them. Then, of course I started thinking about what I could _do_ with them. I put a few up on the market, and one or two actually sold -- and I always told myself that, if I ever came into money like that, I would start my own restaurant. And then we had that conversation on Friday, after you stood me up -- so I was thinking I would quit, move out there, and tell Walter to hire you as head chef here. But when I went to talk to him about it… God, he was just _so_ stubborn. Going on and on about degrees and culinary training and everything… And then he started talking about the other investors, and I just knew it would never happen. And then it just dawned on me.”

“What dawned on you?”

“That I’m not head chef material. Before I came here, I worked as sous chef at Pablo’s in Midtown, and I was _good_ at it. Then I got my big break, coming here, and I realized I wasn’t cut out for it. I can come up with some recipes every now and then, sure, but when a whole team of people is looking to me to lead them… I can’t do that. But _you_ can, Happy. The head chef here before I came -- what was his name?”

“Louis?”

“Louis, right. He was an old-timer. He probably hadn’t made up a new dish since Clinton was impeached; all he did was run around yelling at people. You carried this place on your shoulders, Happy. And I’m saying all this as a roundabout way of asking: will you be my head chef?”

Happy stood there, stunned. Off all ways this conversation could have gone, this was not what she was expecting.

“I… I mean…” she stuttered.

“Now, we’d have to move to LA. Have you ever been?”

Words escaped her; she shook her head.

“I haven’t, either, and I’ve heard the traffic sucks. But it’s a fresh start -- that’s what you said you wanted, right? I’m sure all the food critics out there have heard of Happy Quinn, so we wouldn’t be starting from _nothing_. But we could build a restaurant together. We could call it whatever we wanted -- and no French. Nothing pretentious.”

Happy finally recovered enough to get some words out: “Well, we sure as hell aren’t going to call it Amy’s.”

Toby grinned. “If it was up to me, we’d call it Happy’s. But I thought you might prefer something less narcissistic. So…” He disappeared into that door again, and came out with a big wooden sign, almost as tall as Happy. On the front, it read “The Monkey Wrench” in bold, black letters.

“Mind you,” Toby continued, “I had this idea on Friday night, and it is now Monday, and I already have this sign. So, first of all, I have major talent at sweet-talking the people at the sign-making shop. And second of all, I’m all in, Happy. What do you say?”

Happy smiled. “Yes. Let’s do it.”

Toby whooped -- like, actually whooped, as if they were at a football game. Then, he set the sign down a took a step towards her, before pausing.

“Wait, since I’m technically your boss now -- again -- would it be sexual harassment if I kissed you?”

“Maybe. But it would be up-and-up adjacent if I kissed you, right?”

He nodded, smiling widely.

And so she did. In the poorly-decorated apartment, in a building with a nice lobby and a friendly doorman, in a city they would both soon move out of, she kissed her new boss.


End file.
